Simplicity Parenting (27 page)

For others, a small start might take a lot of effort. One dad told me he turns down the answering machine as soon as he comes home in the evening. “For me that was a big step. And I did it as a conscious choice. I didn’t want to be ‘screening calls’ with one ear as I’m hanging with my kids.” A mom told me that she stopped checking her email after dinner. “I realized that just that stolen moment or two had a big impact. Without that interruption I could use the closeness we’d establish at dinner and segue right into the bedtime ritual. It was so smooth and easy. But if I left to check my email, and maybe return one or two, then by the time I returned, my little ones would be running around, involved in something. It was hard to get back into the bedtime flow.”

If life is a run-on sentence, then these “moments of Sabbath” are the pauses, the punctuation. One mom mentioned that she was so busy, she realized that not only did she need to learn to relax, she needed to model “relaxation” to her kids. “I was modeling competency, and efficiency, but they hardly ever saw me sitting still!” She decided to read for
twenty to thirty minutes in the evening, when and where her kids could see. Invariably one of her daughters would grab something to read and sit by her. They now have reading time together three nights a week. No interruptions, no television, completely unplugged reading time together. “I didn’t have this in mind when I started, and I never would have thought I could do it. But now I love this time we have. I really look forward to it.”

Anticipation

Most families have increased the speed of their lives and the number of their activities gradually—even unconsciously—over time. They realize that there are costs to a consistently fast-paced, hectic schedule, but they’ve adjusted. And looking around, there always seems to be another family that does everything you do, and more, managing to squeeze in skiing, or Space Camp, or French horn lessons on top of everything else. How do they do it?

They do it by never asking “Why?” Why do our kids need to be busy all of the time? Why does our son, at age twelve, need to explore the possibility of space travel? Why do we feel we must offer everything? Why must it all happen now? Why does tomorrow always seem a bit late? Why would we rather squeeze more things into our schedules than to see what happens over time? What happens when we stop, when we have free time?

Like engines that have been calibrated to a revved-up speed, we’ve adjusted to a high-stress “norm.” As such, it may seem difficult to back off the all-activities-all-of-the-time treadmill. In Chapter Three, as you contemplated reducing the overgrown pile of toys in your children’s rooms, it was hard at first to imagine what would actually be gained by getting rid of toys. Wouldn’t it be a net loss? A loss that, at the very least, would be upsetting for the kids? We talked about the extraordinary power of less, how fewer toys allow a child to concentrate their attention, to engage rather than be overwhelmed.

Let’s imagine that transformation as two simple gestures. In the first image we can’t see the child; they’re hidden behind a mountain of toys that they are gazing at, paralyzed. The second image is simple: Without the pile, it’s a child, reaching for a toy.

There is something in the second image that’s missing from the first. Even with that giant mountain of toys, there is something missing. And
it’s not the latest-and-greatest toy, the best ever, the one that will really please. If you back off the overscheduled merry-go-round, something has a chance to develop. It is the same thing that is missing from the first image and evident in the second: anticipation.

When we open up our child’s schedules, we make room for anticipation. Just as it’s hard to cherish a toy that’s buried in the middle of a pile, it is hard to anticipate something when we’re always busy, or when we’re trying to do everything now.

Granted, as adults we’re always looking for speed and convenience. Name anything—modems, cars, food, banking, commutes—and we’ll take it faster, please, given the option. And we would also like what we want when we want it: on demand. We cram more in, in anticipation of the break that never comes, or the advantage that will allow us to maybe, one day, take a break.

When we allow this “on-demand” mentality to color our children’s perspectives and schedules, then they lose the gift of anticipation. The joy of waiting. The passion of expectation. Do you remember yearning for summer? Literally counting down the days? When you back off the treadmill loop of planned activities, you make room for pauses, you make time for anticipation and reflection. In Chapter Four we discussed rhythm and rituals, and how they build consistency and a sense of security into a child’s life. In their regularity, Sunday morning pancakes are familiar. But they’re also special: a certain rich smell your child anticipates, but which still catches them by happy surprise as they throw back the covers and head for the kitchen. Unscheduled time has the same effect: It builds depth—layers of meaning and feeling—around activities.

“Here is the world!” we seem to offer as we drive our children from one activity to the next. Rather than creating excitement, overloading a child’s schedule creates high expectations. “What’s the next great thing?” they ask in return. If we pull back on scheduling, a child can see something coming up; they can literally “look forward” to it. This allows anticipation to build. And anticipation is more than a simple pleasure. It is identity building.

Anticipating gratification, rather than expecting or demanding it, strengthens a child’s will. Impulsivity, wanting everything now, leaves the will weak, flaccid. As a child lives with anticipation, as it strengthens over time, so too does their sense of themselves, their ego. It’s ironic, isn’t it? In our on-demand culture it’s easy to forget what tremendous power can develop through waiting. Let’s look at what else builds with anticipation.

When a child has time to look forward to something—a camping trip, for example—they bring their imagination to it. They begin to make mental pictures of the trip: what they know camping to be, what they imagine it to be, what they hope might happen, what they plan to make happen. They are making their own mental postcards in advance. “I bet when I’m roasting marshmallows around the campfire a bear will come and sit down next to me!” It doesn’t matter that the reality of the trip will differ from their images. Richness is accruing. Already the camping trip is more than an event; it is becoming an experience, gathering layers of meaning and feeling for the child. You know the expression “This is what memories are made of”? These layers of meaning are what memories are made of, what anchors them in our minds.

Waiting for something with anticipation builds a child’s character. It shows them that they have powers equal to the power of their own desires. It shows them their inner strength, the strength of powerful waiting. Unchecked, our wills are like weeds, threatening to take over our whole spirits; invasive vines of desire for what we want (everything) when we want it (now). Anticipation holds back the will; it counters instant gratification. It informs a child’s development and growth and builds their inner life. A dad once listened to me say much of this and added, “Yes, plus, any activity your kid looks forward to automatically has more ‘bang for the buck’!” More bang for the buck, exactly.

Seeds of Addiction

I believe there’s something missing from our society’s debate around overscheduled kids. The issue goes beyond parental motivation: Do parents act out of a desire to provide for their kids, or a desire to gain a competitive advantage for them? It goes beyond the obvious effects on kids: How much stress do they experience with their enrichment? These are certainly important questions, worthy of our consideration. Yet what concerns me most about overscheduling—as with other aspects of “too much, too early, and too fast”—are its effects on development, and on how a young child forms their identity.

Imagine a kid whose very busy schedule looks like a “cropped field,”
with rows of activities, classes and sports, places to go and things to do. I worry that such a daily life can sow unexpected seeds. It can establish patterns of behavior and expectation that become ingrained, difficult to alter. So much activity can create a reliance on outer stimulation, a culture of compulsion and instant gratification. What also grows in such a culture? Addictive behaviors. You can see the shadow of overscheduling in this definition of
addiction
given by my colleague Felicitas Vogt: “an increasing and compulsive tendency to avoid pain or boredom and replace inner development with outer stimulation.”

I have seen it. I’ve seen how loading up a child’s days with activities and events from morning to night can dig a developmental groove in their beings. It can establish a reliance, a favoring of external stimulation over emotional or inner activity. A child with a room full of toys has been set up to be dissatisfied. They’ve been programmed to imagine that pleasure depends on toys, and that the next one might be better than the rest. Likewise, a child who doesn’t experience leisure—or better yet, boredom—will always be looking for external stimulation, activity, or entertainment.

What’s next? The rhythm of their days will be mainly high notes, a rhythm that’s difficult to sustain. Without pause they have little chance for inner activity, little chance to process their experiences. And little chance to deepen activity with what they bring to it: desire, imagination, or reflection. Without pause, there’s no room for anticipation.

Ordinary Days

Aren’t a good many of your days quite ordinary? It seems sacrilegious to admit it, especially when we’re forever encouraged, and encouraging others to “Have a great day!” Yet I’ve found that embracing the beauty of an ordinary day is very helpful in simplifying our children’s schedules.

There’s a lot of pressure involved in “overscheduled days” for both kids and their parents. For kids there are the demands of participation, performing, and competing. And for the parent/driver there is all of that scheduling. The responsibility of getting to the cello lesson on time, with both the child
and
the cello, money for the lesson, and—miracle of miracles—the music book, too. But the biggest pressure involved in all of this enriching is the pressure of exceptionality.

Not everyone is going to be exceptional at everything they do. True enough, most parents would agree. We’ve been around long enough, and with plenty of personal experience to attest to that. Ballet dreams
abandoned. A career path that has veered or doglegged; opportunities missed. Yet we tend to hedge our bets a bit with our kids. Who knows? Look at Tiger Woods. He was golfing at the age of two. Maybe with some extra lessons, or starting a bit younger, our child could be the exception to that rule? They might indeed be exceptional. Little League to the big leagues. It does happen. Isn’t it aiming too low to imagine less?

But how many aspiring cellists will rival Yo-Yo Ma’s artistry? If we hold on to the exceptional—if our children adopt that as their measure of success—most will fail, and almost all of them will feel like failures. There’s freedom in embracing the ordinary: freedom, and possibilities. Because in most things, the exceptional is not really what we want for them anyways. What we want for our children, truly, is engagement. We want their love of the cello to grow, to evolve and endure throughout their lives, whether or not they perform … whether or not they are ever exceptional cellists.

After all, the ordinary allows for the exceptional, but not the reverse. Given ordinary opportunities and encouragement, a truly exceptional talent will surface. But interests—even strong interests and abilities—often burn out when they’re pushed too hard, too fast, too young. The drive toward the exceptional leaves many loves and passions in its wake. Loving something for its own sake—not for its potential in fame, glory, or music scholarships—is far from ordinary. It’s an extraordinary blessing—a strength of character any parent would wish for their child.

There’s another facet to the pressure of exceptionality, one that many parents willingly take on. It’s the pressure to deliver exceptional days. We try our best, with so many activities, such on-demand stimulation and entertainment, to supply our children with a series of rainbow moments. Isn’t this wonderful? How about this? Even better? We hope that these remarkable moments will come together, shimmering, into rainbow days, each fuller and more exciting than the last. A truly exceptional childhood.